ARCHITECTS OF CRIME

Science fiction films do the most to me when they theory conspiracies; challenge social issues, and politicize global prisons. In freedom-of-thought films, such as “Soylent Green”, “Fast Food Nation”, “Super Size Me”, or the one some of you know we’re living in right now – the topic of mind control has always been fascinating.

Mind control was heavy on the brain one night, and both versions of “The Manchurian Candidate” had to be studied in true binge fashion. This was during the time that I was homeless, living out of my car, in LA. Yeah, it happens. A time of constant panic-attack paranoia, sofa surfing from one psycho to another. Bartering with scripts, using temp jobs, and the promise of film deal outcomes as currency for short-stay rentals. One night in particular, I was hanging out having dinner with an industry acquaintance. Not a friend. Not a peer. A Liberace guy with Slick Rick jewelry who had recently lost the use of his legs in a freak accident. He was a friend of a friend, I thought his story was insane, he liked the attention, so here we were. A court settlement of epic proportion turned him into a mink and diamond-wearing, five-car-owning, bitter ATM. A target with trust issues. Forever dodging fair weather family, purposed paramours, and the shameless stampedes of drooling industry vultures. He had a tight circle of friends.

In the meantime, I assumed that I had passed whatever hood IQ quiz Liberace put people through. He really got off questioning my Blackness. Asking about my diet, types of women I dated, the music I listened to, places I’d go, or the kind of car I’d buy if I had a million dollars. So, here I am. Sitting there feet up sipping pomegranate juice on a leather ottoman in his Wilshire corridor high-rise, Beverly Hills condo, studying this dude.

Liberace dressed like a pimp. Sky blue. Mustard. Lime green. Fuschia. Head to toe. Mongo Slade.

His pad is impeccably clean. Not a crumb on the floor. Stainless steel kitchen stocked for a family reunion. Liquor and beer. He never touched alcohol, and said:  “Poison was for guests”.  He told me to help myself. I think he’s testing me, that’s why I cracked open the pomegranate juice, walking around finger-appraising the lowbrow velvet art hung unevenly on the walls. Absorbing his painful ready-routine. Empathy seeping from my pours as he maneuvers that motorized wheelchair. He dropped his toothbrush on the floor. My cringe-empathy wanted to help, but he was fiercely independent. I told him the truth about me living in my car showering at LA Fitness, and existing on Red Bull and Snickers for months.

I showed him my short film. He wanted to know what I was working on now. I told him I was writing a new script most nights blasted on coffee at a cyber cafe. He dug my style and offered to let me stay in his guest room. We’d seen each other before and knew fractions of each other’s story. He’d seen me styling in my Lexus living on Otsego in NoHo before my recent bad luck.  I knew I wasn’t a stranger. A stranger would get no love asking for the kind of favor I was waiting for the right moment to ask. What got me in his condo was that I had just landed a full-time Marketing 9-5 in Westwood a few blocks away. Liberace knew very well about the potholes littering LA filmmaker’s lawns and believed in my tenacity. He was more than glad to help me transition back to my feet. The job didn’t start for another three days. The deal was that I stay for two paychecks, and move out on that fourth Friday. All I had to do was respect his dwelling.

Liberace didn’t prefer the company of filmmakers. He said they talked too much about obscenely obscure things that he couldn’t wrap his head around. The only people he despised more were actors. Liberace said that actors talked about themselves. He loved music biz people.

Liberace fancied himself as a songwriter and kept asking me if I could introduce him to people in the music biz. I said I knew a few cool cats. He fessed up, saying he wanted to get a song on the air. One that he was going to get the publishing credit for writing. If you let him tell it, he was the next big thing. I asked him to let me hear something, he said he had notebooks of songs written but needed production and studio vocalists to bring it all to life.

I admitted that I was not skilled enough in that world to read a song and sniff a hit. However, I knew a guy who knew a guy, who had a studio in the Valley. Turns out, timing was good as he was working with two big groups with platinum plaques from the 90’s, that were both working on comeback projects. The deal was that if he helped me with my film investment, I’d get him in good with my guy. Liberace was in luck, because both groups were looking for writers, and had a fancy studio. I genuinely wanted him to get a gold record to replace these horrible paintings hanging all over the place. I also wanted a piece of the action. It wasn’t fair of me to ask to own anything, but I did want to work out my involvement in whatever capacity everyone was cool with. Maybe directing the first label-financed music video? Maybe a finder’s fee? Whatever.

Night after night, I couldn’t stop seeing the vivid replay in my head of his accident. He was out walking his dog one morning, and the oblong tilt of a palm tree made no sound of stretching, popping, or tearing out of the tree lawn dirt. Falling silently like a guillotine shattering his spinal cord. Was he ever going to walk again? Not for me to say. Only God knows. I thought maybe my optimist’s energy was what kept me around.

When I lived in Brooklyn, I met a guy named Danny Reyes by the Castle-Hill stop, up in the Bronx. Danny told me at a dinner meeting how he was a promising high school basketball player, driving to a game with his teammates. They were mistaken for someone else by the Police, pulled over, and shot. Danny spent years in a wheelchair. The meeting we were having that day was because mutual friends put us together. After all, he was seeking the right person to write and direct his life story. As much as I wanted to help that project come to fruition, I was of no help to Danny, because I was in New York seeking funding for several of my projects. Danny and I bonded. The personal side of his story was going to affect a lot of people in such a positive way. How he never gave up. His faith in God, and how he promised that if he ever got out of that chair, he’d be a role model.

I never talked to Danny again. However, years later, I saw him on social media, walking, playing basketball, and swimming in a public pool. My eyes fogged. Tears running down my face. God touched Danny with a full recovery. Seeing Danny come back from that, was why I had the highest of hopes for my gracious Beverly Hills host.

The meeting with the music people was on the calendar. I got Liberace interested in this mind-control idea. We talked for several nights about how deadly a mind control machine could be in today’s political climate. A screenplay about cybergenic legs for a famous retired athlete was born. Then, it was rewritten into a story about a backroom deal with city council corruption, involving eminent domain. Displacing a long-standing LA Latino community.

The story is about a disbarred Neurologist accused of illegal human experimenting. The Doctor snuck back into the country and was working as an orderly at a Los Angeles hospital. Stealing parts to rebuild his mysterious machine. A device used on Prostitutes to erase horrific traumas. Treating storage areas in the brain to restore their identities. It worked. The lives of his test subjects were forever saved, but before he could conduct sanctioned testing, and get approvals to get his license back, he was caught by a Detective and extorted into helping her with the eminent domain mystery. She needed him to reverse the machine’s primary function so that she could find lost memories. Memories are purposely erased by another diabolical machine. The Doc swears that what the Detective wants is simply too dangerous.

That’s when the Detective threatens to turn him in. He agrees and together, they uncover a monumental political coup that is about to go down. They have just enough time to go up against some very powerful people who are controlling the minds of local Latino politicians.

Okay, so my gracious Beverly Hills Host saw crumbs of merit in this film idea and agreed to help kick-start the financing.

That’s all I needed to hear, as I sat down at my desk. The pages seemed to write themselves, coming together quickly. As soon as the outline was done, I presented him with an Executive Producer’s contract and asked him for that seed money. That was when he kicked me out of his house.

Throwing my belongings into the hallway.

Screaming at me so the neighbors knew my business. I don’t know how he got so angry, and resentful. Accusing me of being a “Typical opportunist”.  I thought I was a mench giving him the paperwork upfront. He had NO IDEA how many people don’t exercise that kind of decorum. People in film and music will get your money, spend it, and then discuss terms. He was in for a rude awakening when he moved on to do deals with the people out there waiting for a sucker. Liberace wasn’t after money or esoteric film concepts, he was after paths to roads leading to writing music so he could be the ultimate groupie.

I slept in my car that night with about two hours of charge on my laptop. Excited. I was writing a new script.

The Beverly Hills Marketing job was a bust-out, and I was back to living in my car.

It figures.

It happens.

I started working as a Bouncer at a popular nightclub in Hollywood. The pay was horrible, and I got into fights almost every other weekend. Coming home scuffed up. The other Bouncers were serious fighters who enjoyed creating opportunities to break faces. They enjoyed the freedom of wearing brass knuckles on the job.

I kept them entertained with stories on the smoker’s back patio.

The show must go on. I used a lot of visualization techniques. Purposed to finding financing for this film. Little by little, tiny things started to fall into place. Dogs had to be walked in the slippery, shit-stained Hollywood dungeons. Being a Bouncer in one of LA’s hottest dives came with perks. I felt a special privilege to know Gangsters of all varieties. Women and men. Latino. Armenian. Asian. Albanian. Black. White. Russian. Jewish. Persian. Clubs got shot up now and then. Rumor had it that the guy whom I replaced got shot. Thumb-sized holes in the door substantiated stories.

We had this locked door policy for our after-hour raves. Whatever kind of pills you needed were sold inside by the guys with the glow sticks. If you arrived after the cut-off, I was told that you were Law Enforcement, because everybody knew the cutt off.

There were no fights on the thumpy dance tune nights. I knew all the promoters. There was this guy from Simi who had a big birthday party at the club. Best buds with the Owner, the Promoter ran some fancy modeling agency. His party had a strict rule for the theme. Vampire lingerie attire only. Hurses pulled up. Ambulances. I was waiting for a horse and buggy, but getting a horse in LA to wait outside was not worth the trouble. Everyone loves the door guy, stuffing my pockets as they passed cakes and presents. Flirting with a few Vampire women, I didn’t mean it when I said “Save me a slice.”

Pretty people. The place was packed. One hour later, one of the frisky Vampires came to see me with a paper plate and a huge hunk of cake. She kissed me on the cheek and ran back into the party before I could respond.

I was in love, completely unaware the cake was cooked in cannabis butter…

I ate the whole thing.

About an hour later… I suspected something… when it was too late. The hit was slow and gradual. I felt it touching my toes, crawling up my ankles. Like being dipped into warm honey soup. Good Lord! I had to get outta here.

What if a fight broke out?

What if the Owner showed up?

Would he know? Of course, he’d know.

What if the Police came? What if?

What if? Paranoia was all over me like a rash.

I never drank on the job. The Owner was sure to show up for his buddy’s party. Luckily, he was in Europe, and this was a chill crowd. It could have gone left. Like the time the Armenians fought the Mexicans over the good corner in the smoker’s patio. The heat got flashed, but luckily, it was all for show. I tasted a few knuckles and felt a few kicks trying to get in the middle of that dust-up. The fact that I took care of these guys every time is the only reason things didn’t pop off. I didn’t separate them that night, I knew they were bored from running out of things to talk about, so I challenged them to a drinking game. Sort of like charades meets trivial pursuit. The result? The Armenian-Mexican love moment sprouted seeds and grew from there. They protected me.

Coming home dripping in blood was a thing I never wanted to get used to. The pay was total shite, but I had to bring home something until I found a better gig. Trust me, every time I talked to someone, I was listening for a chance to ask for a job. Every door that opened was illegal. I respectfully declined.

One night, a diamond tooth, yoga bracelet, Rock Face Gangsta who copped at the club noticed me. By his grin, I could tell he’d taken a shine to me. “Whaddup Folks?” Is how he greeted me. If you smelled dangerous, like you might shoot up the club, I bought you a drink and often got you into the VIP back patio where the weed smoke was partition thick. The term Folks sounded like Chicago Gangbanger lingo, but this guy was from somewhere certainly South of Pico.

I talked shit about stuff on the news, new music, and mostly the scripts that I was working on. Rock Face the Gangsta would come in every few weeks, and each time he’d know exactly where I left off. I was pitching him my entire script catalog, beat by beat. One night, he asked me what my story was. Not the stuff I write, but me. “Who in the hell are ya?” I spit a little game, and told him about the time I was in New Zealand working with the Boo Yaa Tribe, my adventures living in Brooklyn, Cleveland, Honolulu, and Amsterdam, and my filmmaker stumbles in LA. Rock Face the Gangsta took my number, Chicken Hawk sneering when he said he’d see what he could do. I didn’t know what that even meant, but Bouncers know everyone on the scene, so I went with it.

Several months later, I’m suited up – set up working as the number two Legal Recruiter at a DTLA firm. Trying my best to be the top dog. Coming in an hour early, flirting with the Law Firm partners, buying coffee for everyone, staying an hour late, juggling an aggravatingly berzerk, multi-line desk when a voice on the call said: “Whaddup, Folks?”

Rock Face the G.

How he got my work number said a lot about the quality of his Gangsta. He said he had a guy he wanted me to meet. Now.

“Now?”

When we met, I was poor, hungry, desperate, and oozing with excessive bad life choices. My life was together now, I was wearing suits to work. I was a totally transformed version of the Hollywood Bouncer. These days, I had it good, making more money than I had ever seen in a 9-5 situation. Successfully stepping from starving artist sofa surfing to six figs in tailored suits and Ferragamo loafers was indeed,  a personal victory. I was getting fades every week and manicures and facials from Shelly Burbo’s Sherman Oaks Skinology and in love with everything about life at this juncture. The Boss Recruiter, oh… she was a hater, and if she thought you were doing ANYTHING that was not focused on her making HER money… there was going to be problems. She was one of those women with purchased ass, boobs, and abs, who used those weapons to make money, and she was loaded. She sexually extorted me. That’s a story for later. Remind me.

How was I going to get out of here today? Two weeks before today, I lied to her, saying that I had a dentist appointment. I had to make something else up this time.

Rock Face the G wanted me to drop everything in the middle of the day and come up to West Hollywood for a coffee shop meeting. I tried to explain that I couldn’t just walk out of work. Rocky says: “Folks, I don’t think you’re hearing me.” The thing was, he had no idea how many times I’d heard that one. How many times I’d lost my job because of my hungry hypnosis for having Hollywood. It was Friday at three thirty-six. My Boss was out as usual with her girlfriends having drinks. She’d call the office, giggling, drunk requesting progress reports, and have one of us running errands, threatening us saying what would happen if she got back to the office before us. We knew she wasn’t coming back. However, I didn’t want to risk today being the one day that she did stumble back into the office.

I didn’t trust Rock enough to get me a job making this kind of money, plus I kinda liked wearing cufflinks. I didn’t even know if Rock was a real OG, but in LA – that’s one title street dudes mos def don’t throw around.

I went to the meeting.

MELROSE AVE. COFFEE SHOP

I walked in hit hard by the gingerbread. The scent was intoxicating as the Hostess led me to the patio where I saw Rock Face sitting with a sun-tanned early 60’s San Diego surfer. Rocky’s guest looked so much like Matthew McConaughey. I had to stare at the wrinkles in his face, and his blue eyes closely to make sure this wasn’t the luckiest day in my filmmaker dreams. It wasn’t Matthew McConaughey. San Diego sat Native American Indigenous folded knees on the patio, wearing a Gucci fanny pack. A diamond face crusted Patek. Thin gold chains, bracelets, Hugh Heff open buttons on his shirt showing off more chest hair than men outside of Milan.

Despite revealing the private and TMI details of his toxic marriage to a complete stranger, he was a laid-back, long-winded, blonde beach boy with hang-eleven surfer slang. He had his yacht built in Amsterdam, and he sailed it home to Southern California. This would have impressed me if I had been interested in seeing his yacht.

Rock Face kept looking at me like “Bro, don’t you dare mess this one up.” I had no idea what was happening. I fired off a text to a coworker to find out the status of the Boss. I was more than ready to race back downtown.

The talk was so surface level, that I was about to thank them for their time and leave. However, the thing that drew my eye was that San Diego was wearing glazed-green gator skin driving mocs. He slurped on a lunchtime Mojito, gasping in exposed dental nerve pain after every hard swallow. San Diego sensed that I was disinterested in his show-offery, and things immediately switched to biz. He had his own story that needed to be told, and he was looking for a writer for an epic television show. He wanted the story to be seen all over the world, at the same time, on every channel. I shot a private glance to the G: “Where did you find this guy?”

San Diego kept talking. Pointing to the diamond sparkles in his one-of-a-kind custom ivory-tusk paint job Mercedes convertible taking up two spots in the lot. The meeting was over as far as I was concerned. He held up his mojito glass, summoning one for me. I declined. Rock Face was nothing more than the kind of clown I needed to stop entertaining in my life. This was the kind of thing my Brother hated me for. If I lost my job again, he was going to disown me. This starving artist jumping from job to job thing had taken a terrible toll on our relationship. It was 4:45 Friday afternoon. No way the Boss was going to show up now.

I decided to use the ‘price myself out’ method so I could get out of there. What I was about to say was going to scratch the record, cut the lights on, and end the party. Sometimes you have to burn bridges so the crazy don’t follow you. Of respect for the G, I said: “Sounds like a winner. Tell ya what – I’ll do an outline for ten thousand, cash, and then upon approval – I’ll do the script for an additional seventy.”

I was waiting to see how this guy who wasn’t used to hearing no, was going to respond. To my surprise, San Diego in the Gator mocs didn’t flinch, he spun his Gucci fanny pack around, almost mockingly – throwing a wrapped rack of Benjamins into my lap. Ten thousand bucks:

“Meet me at my office at nine tomorrow with the outline.”

I played it cool, knowing Rock the G was going to want a cut so big, it may slash the seats of this cosmic ride, affecting my desire to move forward. I stood, shook hands with both, and bounced out the back door.

Rock called me thirty minutes later and said:

“Don’t go into that meeting tomorrow without seeing me at the coffee shop on the corner. I’ll be there at 8:30.”

Rock said he wanted half.

HALF?! BRUH!!!!!!!?

I responded with a tilted head condescending whisper: “You DO know that Agents, Managers, and Attorneys get ten to fifteen respectively, and if this turns into something, those kinds of collaborators need to be added to the team. So, giving you fifty percent effectively leaves me with a pack of wet matches.”

I wanted him to get mad and hang up. I don’t know what kinda gangsters you know, but rarely do they negotiate the win-win. However, Rock Face was really cool and hit me with a calm crooner’s voice when he said:

“Whatever is fair, Bro. Make me one promise?”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t ask him to throw in a pair of those moccasins.”

Damn it! How did he know I was going to say that? Betcha he was getting a pair for himself. Asshole.

The first thing I do is bring my Brother in. I walk into the house with a wad of cash. Dropping something heavy in his lap. Without meeting these two Gents, or hearing a word of the plan, my Brother starts fuming. Stomping around the room gathering the money that he just threw up into the air. Anger warping his smirking lips, all I saw was his familiar “here we go again” crumped grill.

I said: “If you don’t want to do it, just take that cash, and keep working on our TV specs so we can land on a dope show one day.”

He softened his mind when I told him about the strategy that I had for Surfer’s story. It was going to be an Argentine “Great Gatsby” meets “The Man In The Iron Mask”. That night, after watching those films, we churned out an outline that we both loved. The next day, I took him to meet Rock Face at the Java spot. Passing Rock two thousand dollars, and a folder.

“What’s this?”

“The outline, the thing he wants to see so he knows I’m worth what he’s going to pay for the script, don’t you want to read it?”

Rock the G smiled. Stuffing the loot in his pocket. Giving me a fist bump, he threw up the deuces spun around, and rolled out.

The San Diego surfer greeted my Brother and me on time, in a virtual office lobby with bear claws and steaming mint tea. This time, he had on burgundy moccasins. He sat us down on the sofa to enjoy the munch, while his eyes scanned the document. He took his time. Any writer will tell you how much they love that. Soon, his eyes popped up and his smile said we were about to do business together. My Brother and I set out to write a TV pilot called “The Grand Earl of Denton”. The real-life revenge story of a British society scoundrel. I paid close attention to the many story sessions that detailed the posh life. I thought it was pretty interesting how he got screwed out of his inheritance. The story was about to be the scathing fictional payback that he never got. This was going to be fun.

Weekly cash disbursements were small, but they kept coming.

Three months into the writing process, San Diego’s world implodes when he gets surprise-subpoenaed.

A set of divorce papers.

We felt bad for him and took a trip down to spend the day in San Diego. Surfer was living in a gated community of mountain-view mansions. His golden retriever loved me. The wine cellar was bigger than our apartment. His home theatre had THX, and his garage looked like an exotic car showroom stuffed with a Maserati Gran Tourismo, a Ferrari 458 Pista spyder, and a Bently Bentayga all freshly waxed.

His wife washed him with bleach. He cracked open the good whiskey and said: “Fellas if you ever get married for looks, the hours are long.”

He was in pain. There was nothing we could do. We had work to do. He was sad and didn’t even pack for a three-day trip to Tijuana to deal with his depression. He was a completely new man the next time we saw him.

A month later, the project was finished, he asked: “Well, now what? Let’s get this puppy on the air. Get me a TV deal.”

I broke it to him easily:

“We’re indie film guys, with a very short list of actionable television contacts, and no A-list cast attachments. Those people would probably be open to talking to you if you had a name. Otherwise, you need corporate sponsors, a track record in TV, and a lot of muscle.”

He asked: “Well Hell, how do you get a name?”

Truth was, I didn’t have an agent at the moment, and my attorney probably couldn’t get a real pitch set up. I didn’t want to let him down, so I hurled a hail Mary. Suggesting, perhaps an easier route to arriving at the answer:

”By making a profit from a groundbreaking indie film, you can leverage the right doors to get those TV meetings.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“A Sci-fi story about mind control.”

Surfer loved it. I pointed out that with a special effects budget, things are going to cost a little. San Diego had one of those “money is no problem” laughs. I placed a call to a Producer friend – who was, at the time, one of, if not the… biggest female indie producers in the game. With her Rolodex, she had better than decent odds of attracting bankable talent that could get us a respectable distribution deal. The portal corridor kind of where you actually make good money. After pitching the mind control story to my Producer friend, she joined the team. We were so grateful to get her, and our hot-shot (notorious graffiti hooligan) British import DP. Now that the boat was built, fortified, and set to sail, a debut feature film smelled more real than any of the many failed conquests littering the last two decades.

The thing we didn’t see coming was that the Divorce Attorneys put a freeze on “frivolous funds”. Both Councils weren’t in favor of him giving two Black guys that he’d just met – a sum of many millions of dollars for a risky film venture. Even though, our strategy was to not accept the money until we had a distribution deal in place.

The sting of this suddenly surreal “grand opening — grand closing” moment was one we’d felt a dozen times before. He apologized and that was it. Finito. Done. Dunzo. Kaput.  I watched him sell his mansion and went with him looking at properties in Malibu.

I’d put too much risk into this performance. I couldn’t face my Brother with no money. We couldn’t do anything with the “Grand Earl of Denton” Pilot script, because it was his life story. I slept over at my friend Sylvia’s pad for the next two nights, deciding how to tell my Brother that the film was dead.

I went to see San Diego one last time in his new Malibu pad and managed to convince him to give us ten thousand dollars to create a proof-of-concept film, to attract new investors. I promised him that he was still going to be on the team, but not as the lead investor. He agreed and pulled the cash out of a black Gucci backpack tucked in the lower drawer of his liquor cabinet. He reminded me of Pablo Escobar the way he could find two thousand bucks wrapped in a sock tucked in the back of a kitchen junk drawer.

Even with the ten racks, my Bro was vexed, screaming spitting sardonic fumes at me: “Now we’re working for free! With $10K for a sci-fi film, you can’t pay yourself shit! That money has to go on the screen!” One thing about my Brother, he is a purist to a fault. The average asshole in Hollywood would put as much of that money in their pocket for bills, pizza, and beer, but not my Brother. He loved the art the craft of filming too much to put a penny in his pocket. That money had to go on the screen. I love him for that. After reluctantly tolerating the top of his lungs scream-fest, I eventually convinced my Brother to double down and take the risk. His vitriolic rage for me grew in grudges from grumbles to growls. He didn’t have to work on the film… but he decided to do it with me.

We were honest with each other and our team in the meeting that night communicating the very limited resources at our disposal. The team agreed to stick around. We owed each of them a debt of gratitude for that.

Making a film is like sailing to an island with a chewed-up treasure map and flimsy spoons for the dig. You crew up and bargain for supplies, food, and special filmmaker toys.  The most ironic thing about my indie filmmaking experience is that you have to listen for creaks in the floorboards from mutiny-plotting pirates (on your same team) who are drilling holes in the boat knowing we can all drown, but they are eager to toss you off to the sharks.

There are many ways to get an education in the film business. Not everyone comes up in the game the same way. For example, some people appear trustworthy and often become confidence scammers. People of imposing size often become bullies, simply because they learn their currency and trade for it. However, in the film business, most Producers work their way up from being Production Assistants and learn everything by way of climbing a ladder. They see the hierarchy, they get the coffee, take out the trash, park the cars, walk the dogs, and run the errands. All the while, they are seeing that the special someone at the top who they are trying to impress… always seems to treat the minions like annoying smelly garbage.

Some anxiously wait for their turn to torture, while others on the rise swear to never ever be like that. Then, the day comes when they find themselves running the show, and get to be who they’ve always wanted to be. The evil wielder of leverage. This is one way of doing business. Another way may be that a writer wants to be a director, finds the money to execute this vision, and hires people to help achieve this vision. Problems arise when the Producer that the Writer hires, thinks they can take over the creative decisions on a script they did not write or finance. This could be an issue for you. Especially if this person tries to fire valuable team players behind your back, or create crew dissension to turn on you if ordered.

This all comes from the highest levels of Producer insecurity.

Your production may be in deep water if your Producer salaciously schemes on the Actors during their audition. You may be sinking and not know it if your Producer and DP go outside for a fistfight in the middle of production. Water may be getting in your boat if the Producer sets you up to shoot in a warehouse where a rave is taking place next door, during your shoot. Sharks are circling your boat if your Producer plays with the prop guns on a street corner after hours in Downtown LA.

Mermaids just want to have fun, and will certainly lure your focus if you lack discipline.

The moment the funds landed in my production account, rusty blades came out. Torches ignited. A mutiny broke out on the deck of what appeared to be a smooth sailing ship… steering into a storm.

The real cinema was hiding this unbearable in-fighting from the public eye, and the Investor. The DP and three Producers were at war with each other. Four fights. Art. Commerce. Control and credit. The only victory was finishing the film. Our goal was to make San Diego look good for trusting us. We knew his multi-million dollar net worth was not harmed by the divorce, only paused during the process. We knew that if we delivered something amazing, we’d get back on track, and finish this feature film with him.

However, during the editing phases, unbeknownst to any of us, San Diego pulled out all interest when a more attractive offer presented itself. The confusion forced us all into survival mode. Friendships were tested. Fingers pointed. My only explanation was that you are not you when you’re fighting to breathe.

Film Biz Rule #317, Never let your investor hop around the Hollywood party scene, bragging to bloodthirsty strangers about the final steps remaining before investing in your film. In other words, don’t be the stripper parading her lottery-wining boyfriend around singles bars, before the wedding.

As Joe Rogan would say: “And… just… like… that..” it was over. After months of writing, courting, trips back and forth to San Diego, lunches, dinners, promises, and the physical toll of pre-production – the feature film deal was aborted. Snatched by an unworthy slick-belly salamander who shot out from under a rock.

The crew blamed me.

I confronted the Investor at his gated beach residence in Malibu. Congratulating him on his new three-picture deal. Some lucky schmuck who overheard him talking loud on his phone while shitting in the men’s room at a club, had fallen into miracle fortune.

Oh well, I couldn’t hate.

That’s Hollywood. Never personal. Always business.

I was in the hole seven grand with another investor who helped us with finishing funds for the edit. My heart was broken.

For years, I beat my head against the wall, pouring everything I had into every line on every page. Each script took months to execute, and I truly believed that our entire catalog could compete in the marketplace, and now… I get this?

The filmmakers I most admired nearly killed themselves to get into position to finish their films, and they made timeless art. Guys like Francis. Lars. Brian. Steven.

With much more mountain to climb, my fake smile did its thing that night, as I raised my glass to toast. San Diego was going to share the screen with stars from the 80’s. The thing we missed in our many drinking nights, was that for over thirty years, San Diego was an actor. Despite his gallant attempts, the stars hadn’t fallen into place the way he wanted yet.

The guy who stole San Diego from us was about to get three more films out of him. I respected the genius chess move. All he did was listen. He listened. Finding out what the Investor’s needs were. While I considered myself a purist, overly concerned with creating something critic-proof to launch an auteur’s career, I missed the crucial key. I assumed the Investor wanted a return, and in our case something to launch his TV pilot. The unsaid is a hard thing to hear.

An example of how cold Hollywood can be, was when San Diego invited us to the screening of the first of his new director’s three feature films. They paid a lot to rent out Raleigh studios, serving mini-pizzas, wine, and stuffed strawberries. When the film started, it was apparent that the strategy was “Start-up Distribution companies need films, so give them something, and don’t sweat it.” San Diego was right, but this hurt me because I know firsthand how fickle the Buyers are at Cannes, and at the AFM in Santa Monica. If I made cars, I’d aspire to make Porsche engines. The greatest machines rolling the road.

My Brother didn’t want to attend the screening, but I made him go. He took great pleasure in the way he made a showing of getting up in the first two minutes. Walking out. Stepping on everyone’s feet. Slamming the door.

My Brother had his told ya so moment. He knew from the day that I walked in with that ten grand that he was going to be right.

Accepting my defeat graciously, I stayed for the entire film. Filling up on red wine in the lobby afterward. Congratulating San Diego for the one line of dialogue he was given.

The lesson that day was that film life is not fair. Some make great fortunes installing go-cart engines in clown cars for the circus, and people love it. Look at you, with your Porsche 911 dreams. I’d be a hater if I said anything about the show they put on.

I did shake hands with them, but my smile was fake while watching the Honcho director drive off in a gleaming drop-top Mercedes with the lead actress’s hair blowing in the wind.

I went home on the bus to reheat leftover mac’n cheese.

The thing that I am most proud of is that every single artist on the crew got to be an artist, and they kicked ass. “Architects of Crime” is still winning short film festivals. The feature script is free of entanglements, and currently seeking equity partners.

The sad part of this story is that my favorite DP Shane Daly committed suicide. Hollywood is a party with limited invitations. We fall for the mirage. The illusion that our dreams lead us here for that party. Some try to sneak in the back door, but you can’t stay if Hollywood doesn’t want you here. I got to know Shane in what appeared to be a much closer bond than any American in LA. We talked about how to do it without the blessing of Hollywood. We loved picking apart the nuances within the politics of boxing, hip hop, graffiti, racism and why America is so uncomfortable with inter-racial dating – while grilling bison sipping Irish whiskey – watching the fascinating skills of unknown filmmaking teams responsible for underground indies. My favorite UK rapper was Roots Manuva, and his favorite American was Nas. We argued over who was more of a Nas fan.

Out of respect for Shane, I will not detail the story of his family. Shane was no saint. A misunderstood artist who lacked the kind of communication skills necessary for synchronous friendships. Shane preferred talking with pictures on screens with cameras and walls with klacka-klacka cans of fat cap paint. His crew in London was a big deal. They dealt with Robo and Banksy. Worlds we know nothing of. Shane and I had some good times, and a few productive dust-ups. He was heavy into Crypto. Guns. The study of Jui-Jitsu, and his two cats.  He had to move to Vegas after his divorce and while there, the dirty claws of depression punctured his jugular. His marriage collapsed for many reasons. All of these were his fault chiefly because he was horrible at sharing his feelings, and that Hollywood was doing him dirty. Not the first man conditioned to bottle emotions. He said he was editing a documentary about his untouchable graffiti crew in London, and that some of them weren’t going to be pleased with it. “Tossers” is what he called him for not supporting his efforts with simple cooperation of interviews when he’d flown into town for the meet. He hinted that they’d threatened him when he screamed: “BULLOCKS! THE SHOW MUST GO ON!”

The documentary was never finished. Maybe it was.

Shane got mixed up in a sexual harassment case in a film in LA where he says that he was the victim. From the version he shared with me, I said: “The judge will never believe you, man. You’re too tall and loud and argumentative and come in the room with a bully’s menacing energy.”   Shane was 6’4, White, bald with a tattoo on his neck. I told him not to get that ink, because of the negative assumptions he’d invite. Shane had no idea that the way he walked around carrying on resembled the aggressive stance of a recently released prison inmate. I told him that people here seek to put you in a box based on appearance, best to move confusing and pick your moments to play up that posh British accent that he could do. Americans love and respect that accent.

Shane said more than once that if his Crypto bag of over $200K got erased, he would kill himself. I thought he was joking. That was his running joke. Killing himself. I never paid it any mind. Shane was up for a few features each paying well over six figures. He was reading the scripts and hating all of them. He was an artist who really wanted his work to affect the world. To enhance movie-making experiences. That is why he was writing his own short film script to direct. The one about his childhood and is Mom who did the best she could with the Dad he never knew. Writing ain’t easy… he was stuck hating his current draft. I offered to assist. He said he wanted to take another pass before sharing.

I don’t think the virtuoso cinematographer liked Vegas. He said he wanted to move to Texas and get a Tesla SUV and have a compound for abandoned cats so he could love them proper.

Like anyone who tries to earn a living in Hollywood, there comes the crush. The slap. The silent cry. Shane was harmed by the rejection of the film game. It’s difficult not to take it personally. The sexual harassment lawsuit ended rather badly by him being forced to drop the case, which devastated his confidence in the system. He assured me with great certainty that his name was blackballed.

A man with his cats, Shane was a heavy drinker and a serious weed smoker with pistols, rifles, ammo, vests, infrared goggles, and explosives in his apartment. He prayed that no one would make the mistake of trying to rob him in the middle of the night.  I’d assumed he had the place booby-trapped with cameras and maybe explosives.

Walking toxic.

At least once a week, he’d call me explaining the altercation he barely avoided with someone sitting close to him in the cinema who was having a full-on conversation on their phone, cutting him off in traffic, catching an attitude over the last melon at the market, or the insensitive secretary at his doctor’s office. He never left the house without a blade, three loaded weapons, and a vest. I feared the day anyone actually tried to call him out or pull a gun on him for show.

Shane was also getting quite good at martial arts. A local MMA gym had him fascinated with Jujitsu. He was a lethal cocktail to say the least. However, any decent Sifu would teach his students the kind of respect for humanity to avoid fighting at all costs, so I knew the more he trained the less he was going to hurt someone. He blamed his wife. His Hollywood collaborators. His Mother. I told him he played a part in all of that. He called me a cunt and told me to FUCK OFF!

We blocked each other on the phone and didn’t speak for several days at a time. I did it and he took it personally, as if how dare you reduce this abuse?  I knew he was under a dark cloud and put myself out there just to show him some love when his world lacked any semblance. I walked into winless debates. I said things that I’m sure he screenshotted and sent to some of you to make you hate me, but hey… whatever. I said what I said and I stand on business.

Sometimes you say things you don’t mean to talk someone off the ledge.

I unblocked him about a week later and said whaddup? He never responded.

Weeks turned into months. Then I stopped waiting.

While he was not speaking to me something happened in his world that pushed him over the red line.

BANG! Without warning, the day arrived when Shane put a gun to his head and

BOOM!

POP!

Ending not just a life, but one full of amazing artistic potential.

Shane Daly will always be one of the most brilliant Cinematographers in the film business. He is gone. A flame pinched out before it could blaze its name.

True, Shane rubbed a few people the wrong way, but if you wanted the friendship and knew how to get under that tough skin, he was a real dude. A bad-ass British B-boy artist who felt comfortable with comedy in a room full of Black guys.

CHEERS, MATE…

You will be missed, Bruv.